


The Incurably Criminal

by Amelinda



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Death Eaters, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Manipulative!Tom, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Radical Politics, discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-20 21:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11929344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelinda/pseuds/Amelinda
Summary: Harry Potter entered St. Brutus's an innocent teen. But there he met Tom Riddle, a charismatic man on the edge of insanity, and as they say—the rest was history.Or in which Tom Riddle finds a broken Harry, and introduces him to the Death Eaters, a political faction on the fringe, lurking quietly among society's best and brightest.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a story where Harry participates in Death Eater shenanigans, but had trouble justifying it in the canon context. So, instead, we have this: a shit show, sans dark magic. The prologue sets the pace -- an origin story! -- but the following chapters will take place outside of St. Brutus's.
> 
> Oh, and please be careful: This story is dark. Graphic sexual content. Graphic violence. No graphic rape, but several references to past sexual violence. For what it's worth, the prologue isn't too bad.

The thinnest hand of her wristwatch never ticks around the dial. That’s how Harry knows 5 o’clock medicine time is a bloody fucking lie.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been here. His ankles, restrained by thick leather cuffs, ache with sores worn through his topmost seam of flesh, leading him to suspect that it’s been a long stay indeed. The flower-patterned drape curtaining his iron bedstead provides sufficient distraction when he swallows back the flavorless chalk Nurse Cole pops in his mouth. The chalk brings a haze, and the haze at first feels magnificent—he sees in the cloth curtain peonies a reminder of lush soil beds on Privet Drive, and when he reaches, he swears he can grab them. The haze of bliss, however, doesn’t last. He next swears he’s back _there_ , where the Dursleys are, and euphoria dries in the drought; the peonies wilt to feeble brown; the wind smacking the blind-drawn window seems to speak in unintelligible whispers.

It makes him _scream_.

At some point, maybe weeks ago, he learned to connect the haze to the chalk, and taught himself the trade of a serpent: regurgitation. It works well. Once the slick spit is at his tongue, he tucks his chin beneath the collar of his tunic and scrapes the mixture. A little girl with braids does the laundry, and if she sees his sick residue, she certainly doesn’t tell. She’s quite nice to Harry. When she comes around, making her rotations, she wipes the lint from his lenses and gently places them back over his nose with a smile. She doesn’t answer his questions, but then of course, no one does.

Today is different from other days. Today, Nurse Cole has an announcement:

“Good news,” she mutters, blue eyes raking over her clipboard. “No screaming for ten nights. Seems the medicine’s done its trick.”

He nods.

"That means we can take you off the cuffs. Would you like that?”

He nods again.

“You’ll also be getting a roommate.” Her bony fingers clench the peonies and scrape the metal hoops along the curtain rod, revealing another empty bedstead. “A young man, transferred from the north: Mr. Tom Riddle.” She sinks her hand into her apron pocket, taking out a capped plastic tube and rattling the pills inside. “It’s five o’clock.”

Harry forces his eyes down, not letting himself look at her deceitful timepiece.

She performs her duty, and when she’s gone, Harry presses his hands into his gut, straining the muscles of his esophagus to wretch the ash of his medicine. He can’t think as clearly as he once did. Morning milk, a thick and foggy liquid, is not too easily wretched, and though the symptoms don’t bother so much as the pills, it does slow his thoughts. Each night, as his bogged mind lulls into a mist-laden slumber, he recites his life beneath his breath: “I’m Harry James Potter. I was born on the 31st of July. I’m at St. Brutus’s Control Centre for the Incurably Criminal. I don’t belong here. I’m Harry James Potter. I was born…”

And it goes on like this, a tedious chant of tedious information.

He knows what he says is true. He knows who he is. He knows he doesn’t belong here.

\-----

A burly man wheels Tom Riddle in the next morning.

The poor chap looks a sight. He’s as gaunt as the bones of a corpse and his head creaks forward with the defeated slump of a ghoul (he’s as pale as one, too). The odd thing is his hair; not like Harry’s overgrown, uncleaned mop, his black tresses are trimmed perfectly at the nape. It’s out of place paired with his worn essence, but it suits the vestige of handsomeness lurking subtly in sullen features. Riddle is pulled to his feet by his handler, and a certain angry look crosses his furrowed brows, making him far more human than the blank, bloodshot stare. He stalks to the bed carefully, hands cuffed across his front. There are a few white, faded scars strung around his wrists like permanent bracelets—right, Nurse Cole did call him a transfer, didn’t she? He’s new here, but no stranger to the scene.

When he’s beneath his blankets, wrists freed and ankles fastened to the cot, his handler gives him bottled water, a jar of Sun-Pat peanut butter, and a spoon. Harry’s painfully empty stomach lurches at the sight. The loud growl diverts the burly escort’s attention from Riddle, to Harry.

“You hungry?” he mutters.

Harry bites his lip. He is hungry, but if him saying yes means this Riddle bloke goes without, he best keep his gob shut; Riddle is plainly in greater need. Harry shakes his head tensely.

“He’s lying,” Riddle states confidently as he unscrews the lid, his baritone voice more solid than one would imagine from looking at him.

“Err, no, I’m—”

“It’s fine,” the handler says, raising his palm. “I’ll get you one. Need anything else, Mr. Riddle?”

Riddle sips from his glass and wipes his mouth with a wrist. “No, Yaxley. I’m quite alright.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly up. The posh-sounding words of Riddle, so crisp and fluid, raise questions that are far too rude to ask a practical stranger, like: Are you rich? If so, what the hell are you doing here? His demeanor, though beaten, also hints at a regal upbringing, and makes sense of the straight nose and fine, slanting cheekbones. Harry stretches his arms out toward the ceiling, attempting to move about and catch a glance of Riddle that will not come across as outright gawking.

Riddle spots him instantly, spoon in mouth, and cocks a brow with an expression of curiosity. “I’m told you’re called Harry Potter. Is that right?”

“Um, yeah,” Harry confirms, pressing fingers into the blistered flesh of his ankle, sores hurting worse in the bite of chill air through the window than when compressed in binds.

Riddle smiles and places the jar down, turning a bit on his side. “You look young. How old are you? Fifteen?”

“Eighteen, thanks,” Harry corrects, flustered. He witnessed a mirror when bathing some days ago, and saw in his emaciated reflection a boy too young to be himself. And to think, he used to be almost decent looking. “And you?”

Riddle sighs, lies back with his hair on the pillow. “No need to be so touchy. Perhaps with age you’ll grow to be grateful for a touch of youthful beauty. I’m thirty-one, and loathe to believe it.”

Harry, too dull and muted by morning milk to scoff, manages to snort. “It doesn’t matter how I look. I’ll die in this place.”

The truth doesn’t pierce him; such emotions require enthusiasm, and he can’t muster the verve. But it does sink in slowly, the rounded end of a broom digging into his back, as Uncle Vernon liked to do, pressing him against the wall, laughing and taunting and _bastard_.

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. _Bastard_.

“Ah, there it is,” Riddle croons.

Harry stills his trembling hands. Shame ripples throughout his body as he realizes his mouth, snarling, betrayed him and let the curses slip free, into the open and into Riddle’s dangerous ears. He inhales sharply and looks to Riddle, voice shaking. “Please, don’t think that of me. It’s the medicine. I wouldn’t… I’m _not_.” A shuddery breath escapes his nose. “I don’t belong here.”

“There, there,” Riddle sympathizes emptily, smoothing his own blanket down as if to comfort Harry. “Look at me. You think I got like this without the aid of our pretty, little round treatments? It’s bollocks. I wish I could say the pills were the worst of it.”

Riddle's bitterness, bleeding palpably through his words, exposes a sentiment that resonates with the very essence of Harry’s being. He scowls and withdraws his knees. “I don’t deserve this. I’m innocent.”

“Aren’t we all?” Riddle says dismissively.

“No, really,” Harry insists, fingernails biting into the backs of his ears. “I was framed. Nobody believes it, but it’s true. I was framed.”

Riddle sighs with that admonishingly adult quality. “Tell you what. I’ll get you a diary.”

“A diary?” Harry repeats skeptically. “For what?”

“It’s what my therapist told me to do,” he explains. “I told him I was innocent, and he told me he would believe it only if I wrote my thoughts for thirty days and let him take a look.”

“Yeah?” Harry snorts, shaking his head. “What’s that supposed to prove?”

“Well,” Riddle trails, pupils rolling up in thought, “I suppose it can at least help prove you’re not insane.”

“Worked out brilliantly for you, I take it?” Harry spits sardonically.

“Indeed, it did.”

Harry frowns and twists his neck, staring at Riddle. “Then what are you still here for if you’re so sane?”

A thin-lipped smile cuts sharply across Riddle’s hollow cheeks. “Because, against my wishes, the diary proved that I’m not.”

\-----

Harry accepts the offer when the diary comes bound in brown paper with a hemp bow. Its cover is made of supple leather. He brings it to his nose and inhales, taking in the strong must of stiff parchment. Holding it up, he looks to Riddle and smiles appreciatively. It is, in eighteen years, the first gift he’s ever received, and it's a very expensive piece indeed. Harry almost regrets besmirching it with the blunt point of his cheap plastic pen, but Riddle insists on filling it as fast as he can, as he considers his small library—a three-layered shelf by his bed—to be a meager distraction. Figures a rich guy like him wouldn’t realize he’s got it better than most of his addled compatriots.

“I’m not rich,” he huffs when Harry pokes fun. “I’m _endowed_.”

Yes, those are his words on the matter. Harry’s not sure what it means and Riddle never elaborates. Whatever the case, he’s treated as a rich man alone can afford in their whereabouts, and the proximal benefits Harry receives as his roommate are worth sitting through the occasional high-strung, delusional tangent. Since Riddle’s arrival, Harry misses neither meal nor bath, and is privileged to roam the halls with Riddle under surveillance—an activity that is as good on the joints as it is bad on the heart. In the corridor, the loose, pence-sized tiles peel up near the cracked moulding, and the vague stench of burnt chemicals wafts in through the vents. If a patient's door is open, Harry must turn his head, quick. He can't bear to look. Not after what he saw the first time:

A disfigured mess of a woman with gnarling wounds like meat slabs bulging from her face. Her gaping mouth, unhinged and dangling, gurgled with a convulsive frequency, and as Harry attempted to pry his stare away, hers found his, and godhe hopes to never witness something like it again. They were wide and desperate, and worst of all, _lucid_. Like she knows as well as Harry does that she’s utterly fucked.

They return to their room and find a white-haired gentleman in a suit of maroon.

“Have a nice walk, Tom?”

Riddle takes his place on the cot, not eyeing the man, and responds with a curt nod.

The guest smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.” He turns his wizened front to Harry, then bows his head. “Call me Albus.”

“Harry,” he returns politely, pulling out his journal from behind his pillow. He has noted down quite a few of Riddle’s guest—a sallow-skinned teen with black hair (‘ _Sev’_ ), a middle-aged blond man (‘ _Brax’_ ), a woman with waist-length black hair and aristocratic beauty (‘ _Bella_ ’). Though English, like Harry, they all speak with Riddle in French (to avoid Harry’s ears, no doubt). This old man, if eccentric, is at least polite enough to use their true tongue.

“Nowhere better to be, Professor?” Riddle says coolly.

‘ _Day Nine,_ ’ Harry writes in the diary. _‘Riddle has another visitor. A professor called Albus.’_

“Nowhere I’d rather be, no,” Albus says mildly, peering through a pair of half-mooned spectacles. “Berkshire has yet to see a pupil as impressive as you.”

Riddle laughs in a derisive tone. “Give it time, Professor.”

The old man tilts his head, stares simply and doesn’t interrupt for several minutes as Riddle nosedives into a tale of utter nonsense; his typical manic ranting. Harry squeezes his pen tighter when he glances up at the man’s steely blue, glimmering expectantly—it's a look Harry knows and despises: lust. The traitorous organ in his chest begins to quicken. This man is filth. This man is a monster. His nose is bent and crooked at the hunch, perhaps injured when a young man attempted to escape, perhaps when _Riddle_ attempted to escape. _Yet to see a pupil as impressive as you_ , ha.

Yeah right.

Harry hesitates, his pen hovering over the page. He wants to write what he sees, but if Riddle is to read it, what will he think?

But he’s writing his thoughts in the next second, and then for hours afterward. He doesn’t just write about today, but of the years before today, of events recessing into the deepest corners of his mind. He writes his daily schedule—wake up and drink the milk, bathe when told, empty the chamber pots, take a walk with Riddle—and he writes his old schedule, the one that seems surreal. 

_‘Aunt Petunia slid the list into my cupboard: breakfast, laundry, tend the flowers, sweep the floors -- more and more and more. Dudley liked to tip the mopping water and push me in it, and Uncle Vernon always laughed.’_

He grits his teeth, continues parenthetically:

_‘(Dudley wouldn’t find his daddy so funny later on, would he? Fucking cunt.)’_

“Lot of thoughts today,” Riddle comments at dinner, waving heat from the steaming soup on his tray.

Harry pulls his bread roll in two, dips one side in broth. “You know what that’s like.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” he agrees. “The medicine helps, yes, but the medicine lies.”

“Mhm.”

It’s often like this: Harry acknowledges him, but just so. Can’t get Riddle too energized, or else Harry risks lighting the fuse. Though, if he's honest, he really doesn’t mind much. Recognizing his roommate’s insanity assures him that his own sanity is safely intact.

Riddle continues to murmur unintelligibly, and Harry tries to tune it out with little success. He’s acutely aware of the thick, dried crust at his collar—his vile pill residue, which the diary has taught him comes three times a day and probably never at 5 o’clock. He wishes he had a pinch of pepper for his gruel slop. He was a good cook himself, a good servant to the Dursleys. Their betrayal in court reveals nothing of Harry, for he was as kind, as loyal a member of their family as was to be expected of an unwanted orphan transplant. Their cruelty was unfair. He didn’t deserve that, and doesn’t deserve this. He pushes his tray of food to the foot-space of his mattress and fishes beneath his pillow for the diary.

It is certainly more comforting that cloth peonies.

 -----

“Vous êtes encore trop faible!”

_‘Day twenty-nine, Brax is back for the fifth time. He speaks in angry French while I watch in angry English. Riddle mostly doesn’t speak.’_

Harry, tucked up to his chin, writes discreetly on his right side. The sliver of a waxing moon sits among the smattering of stars outside his window, and he wonders how long it’s been since he was last outside. Four months? Five? The diary is up to twenty-nine days and has fewer than twenty pages left, so lately he’s taken to pithy statements. Riddle quickly reads through his heavy tomes and, as far as Harry can see, seems quite interested in the final product of his suggestion. Harry himself is eager to be proven sane, even if by the determination of a man who sometimes rambles for hours on end.

When he isn’t acting mental, he is a brilliant man. His wit charms the ears smoothly like a mellifluous song, and with recent nourishment, his cheeks have plumped handsomely. He remains too thin for outsiders perhaps, but patients at St. Brutus’s are held to unusual standards. The others Harry passes in the corridor are no different than he is, than Riddle is—thin and vacant and doped. Harry moves his regard back to the men. Brax’s arms are crossed, his head turned to the side. He stands over Riddle with a puffed-out chest and puckered lips. Riddle, as usual, is in a rather calm state, fingers interlaced atop his lap.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” Brax whispers before turning harshly, black boots clacking out the door.

“Upset, is he?” Harry asks.

Riddle laughs. “Brax is a bit of an overdramatic sort, but he’ll be fine. It’s a shame you don’t speak French. It’s a beautiful language.” He runs his long fingers down his knee, to the ankles red but free. “And you’re a beautiful boy.”

Harry’s muscles stiffen to stone, and Riddle’s dark eyes shift slowly to peer at him: lust, but _no._  

Not lust at all; Riddle wouldn’t do that to him.

Harry swallows thickly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you should feel appreciated,” he states, unmoving. “My time here is coming to an end, and you’ve been great company to me; truly. You deserve to know your worth.”

Harry pales. “You’re… you’re leaving?”

“I’ll soon have served my due time,” Riddle smirks, “though if it means to part with you, then I should almost wish to stay longer.”

“Umm…” Harry blushes, nervous, and clutches the diary tight. “Do you, maybe…?” He extends the leather across the aisle of their bedsteads, an unspoken barrier neither have breached but which seems, in hindsight, a silly division. “Do you want to read it?”

For a second, there is nothing but this: two stares locked on the other. Then, with a warm smile that thaws the fear held in Harry’s bated breath, Tom takes the diary and gently reels it in.

“Yes. I’d love to.”


	2. One

“Family?”

“Yes, family. You don’t have any living family, do you?”

“Family…” Harry repeats bitterly, eyeing Tom’s boxed-up bookshelf and lightly packed suitcase. He once called the Dursleys his family because, pathetically, he wanted it to be true. He tried to convince himself that beneath the contusions, cuts, and venomous insults— _ugly freak, ignorant boy, waste of space_ —he was loved, at least a little, by his aunt and uncle.

“No. I don’t have any family.”

“I see,” Tom says, leaning his elbows on the box, gazing at Harry with a small smile.

“What are you smiling at?”

“You know, I don’t have a real family either. I was orphaned before starting primary school. But fortunately, I went on to make a family on my own, a family bonded by something thicker than blood. They make me far happier than my own _blood_ has ever made me, related or not. And I think you could be happy with us, too.”

“Right,” Harry says slowly. “But we’re not exactly the same. You see, I didn’t _voluntarily_ commit to come; I was court ordered. I’m here for fifteen years, so unless you want to come ‘round then…”

“No,” Tom says, his tone imperious. “You’re innocent, and therefore, you don’t belong here.” Long fingers drum contemplatively on the box before him. “Had your cousin not lied, it would be him incarcerated; not you. I can’t pretend to know how long it will take, nor can I say it will be easy, but if you choose to trust me, Harry, I can get you out of here.”

A softness reaches Tom’s eyes, but Harry stiffens his lip and stops the sentiment of affection in its tracks. He told himself he’d never be the stupid kid he once was, putting his blind faith in those who will inevitably exploit him, cause him pain. He can’t be twelve again. He would sooner die than return to that place, the day when the lesion was freshly cut and raw, before the skin started to mend, nerves dead and senses numb.

But maybe this is different. With Tom, he feels different than before—the warmth in his regard, the hot confidence in his words, it reignites the little ember he feared would never return. It’s not a wildfire, no; his gasoline is spent, and his matchbox bent and tattered. But there is something there, and he doesn’t want to lose it.

He looks at Tom and smiles.

\-----

Harry didn’t know then what he was agreeing to. He didn’t know who Tom Riddle was nor did he know what he’d done. He didn’t know that the drug-induced rambling concealed a man more powerful than the Minister, and he never thought for a moment that he, Harry, was to take part in his grand design.

He perhaps should’ve heeded the fear when it struck, but then the time came again to choose, and still, his choice was the same; he chose to play with fire and he didn’t look back until her face, whimpering and pleading, begged him to reconsider.

But that came later. Until then:

_Black Country House, the following year_

There are three cars outside: one black, one white and one dreary green. Harry keeps his attention rapt there, on the green one, and lets his mind devise a morbid fantasy—his corpse splayed on its broad hard-top. If he leapt down now, he’s sure he’d land face-first, features mauled to perfection upon impact. The melting frost from the balustrade, draining into slippery webs at his feet, would be as good an alibi as he’d need to evade scrutiny (dead or not, he’d hate anyone to imagine he left such a mess on purpose). He looks over the winter-fresh expanse of snow, at the few barren trees ice-sickled with frost, and then bows his head, eyes locked on fine white trainers.

“You’ll freeze out here, stupid boy,” Bella remarks churlishly, peeking her head through a narrow-slit opening in the balcony door. “We can’t have you getting sick today. Tom would go mental.”

“He _is_ mental.”

Bella growls a high-pitched grunt. “Trying to avoid your assignment, are you? You’re lucky I don’t just push you off the balcony.”

“I won’t stop you.”

Dark-eyes squinting, she huffs and turns, sour expression replaced by her thick black curls. Harry steps behind her into the upper parlor, stomping snow onto the entrance mat while wiping the misty fog from his spectacle lenses. He places them back on and takes in the familiar scene: an old-fashioned arrangement with ancestral paintings and fluffy chairs upholstered in regal red. Sallow-skinned Severus, quiet in his corner of coding, hunches over his keyboard and stares intently at a propped open book. His large, hooked nose is nearly touching the page when, with a jerk, he pops back up and begins vigorously clicking away. Bella snorts and shakes her head.

“Such a little weirdo, you are,” she mocks.

“I’d rather be a weirdo than a massive cunt.”

“I take it you know much about the subject of massive cunts, having one yourself.”

Severus stops typing to run a hand through his thick, greasy hair. “You and I both know that if I _did_ have a vagina, your tongue would be first in line to lick it clean.”

“ _Lick it clean_? Clean of what?” she asks incredulously. “What do you think a vagina is, exactly?” She rolls her eyes and scoffs, crossing the oriental rug to stand by the fire, rubbing her hands for warmth. “Can’t believe Tom left me here to babysit you two all day.”

Harry, still standing, twiddles his fingers and glances at the clock: 16:24. Thank God. Tom will soon be here with the guests. He hates being left with these two.

“Has Tom texted you lately?” Harry asks hopefully. “I want to finish getting things together before he arrives.”

She pouts. “No! I tried calling him like fifty times.”

(Harry is sure this isn’t an exaggeration.)

“I think maybe if I call again – ”

As if cued, Bella’s phone gives a humming buzz and twinkle. She sighs with relief and plunges her ringed fingers inside the pocket of her parka. Her next sound – a belted shriek upon first glance at whatever was sent to her – upends the hairs on Harry’s arms.

“What?” Harry asks, approaching and attempting to see the screen. “What is it?”

“Fucking _idiot_!” she screeches, pacing manically, fingers moving swiftly through different screens on her phone. “Unbelievable! This bloody moron’s gone and ruined everything. I can’t believe this.” She looks between Harry and Severus with a severe expression. “You two just stay here and don’t do anything stupid. I need to call Cissy.”

She rushes out of the room, muttering a string incomprehensible expletives that echo down the hall, falling softer and softer until nothing can be heard in the parlor at all.

“Uhh…” Harry voices, scratching the back of his neck. “What d’you reckon that’s about?”

Severus bites his lip as he thinks. “She said she needed to call her sister, Narcissa… oh, for Christ’s sake.” He rubs his hands over his eyes. “Let me see.”

Harry walks over to Severus, awkwardly leaning over his shoulder as he types ‘Lucius Malfoy MP’ into the search query on his browser. Both wince at the headline—this is certainly what she’s screaming about.

‘ALLEGATION: LABOUR MP LUCIUS MALFOY TEXTED LEWD IMAGES OF HIMSELF TO A LOCAL WOMAN, 18’

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

Harry remembers Lucius Malfoy. He came once to visit Harry at St. Brutus’s, dressed in a tan double-breasted coat and coffee-brown brogues that shone brightly even in the dank fluorescence. Nice bloke, but a bit of a rotter. The too-white teeth were far too visible, far too eager to please Tom as he performed this little favor, getting perspective to testify on his behalf:

_Yes, your Honor, I believe Harry to be of perfect health and sanity._

Severus exhales slowly, applying pressure to his temples with the pads of his fingers. “It’s not just bad. It’s devastating.”

“I mean, he’s a Labour incumbent running in Bristol,” Harry comments, repeating a statement he’s heard others say as if it were his own judgement. “Surely this won’t stop him winning.”

The other man scoffs. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

“I know plenty, thanks,” Harry mutters defensively. “But what’s your point? I mean, he’s just one MP. We’ve also got,” his eyes roll up as he recalls Tom’s lecture, “Yaxley, Lestrange, Pettigrew, Crouch and Carrow.”

“Yes, I know Tom’s taught you some bare facts, which mean nothing at all if you can’t connect the dots. Do you happen to recall which committees each of these gentlemen serve on?”

“You’d save more time if you just explained it to me instead of trying to make me feel stupid. What is it with you two, anyway? Everyone likes me but you and Bellatrix.”

“Cry me a river,” he says in a falsely mopey tone, pretending to wipe tears with both his hands. “Not everyone gets to be liked, Potter. The problem with Lucius Malfoy, specifically, is this—he’s on the Intelligence, Security and Terror Committee, and they’re about to be tasked with investigating our activities. Nobody’s been able to successfully identify any of our members yet, but we need Lucius there to misdirect their attention. Otherwise it’s out of our hands what happens there.”

Harry twists his mouth, confused. “But why would something like sexting ruin his chances?”

“Because of _this_ ,” Severus types into his query and pulls up a page of article titles:

‘HERMIONE GRANGER POLLING AT 34%: CAN SHE WIN?’

‘HERMIONE GRANGER: BLACK AND PROUD AND RUNNING FOR PARLIAMENT’

‘HERMIONE GRANGER, 25, BECOMES THE FIRST CANDIDATE FOR THE DEMOCRATIC PEOPLE’S PARTY (DPP)’

He clicks over to the images, and zooms on her face. Thin, coiled curls fall down her round face, skin glossy with sweat as she speaks into a microphone. Hand-painted picket signs behind her read: ‘ _We will win!’_ and _‘The Future Belongs to the People!’_

“She’s polling higher than Lucius in three key demographics but she hasn’t been able to break double-digits with the others. And then, there’s also _this_.”

Text zooms on the screen, Severus highlighting the focal point in blue with his cursor:

“ _When asked about her legislative priorities, Granger responded, ‘Social welfare reform has always been, and will continue to be, the primary concern of the DPP. Some call this narrowly-focused. Let me assure you, it is not. When we say, ‘We will revitalize our nation’s safety nets,’ we mean it. We will reinvest in critical civil infrastructure; we will fund our schools; and we will, at any cost, identify the all persons affiliated with the so-called Death Eaters and prosecute them like the terrorists they are._ ”

“Come on,” Harry says, rolling his eyes, “they all say that sort of thing.”

“But do you know what the difference is?”

“What?”

“ _She_ is the furthest left candidate on the ballot. If she can gain momentum, and convinces these complicit fools that they’ve got something to gain by choosing non-violent alternatives, we lose Labour votes _and_ we lose some legitimacy as a movement; in short, Lucius’s cock could cost us a lot more than just one seat.”

Harry considers this for a second, but not a moment longer. He neither knows nor cares how these things add up.

\-----

Lucius is benched on his porch when the black cab cuts through his snow-touched grass, narrowly missing the albino flock dear Father insisted on purchasing. Inside, her wretched keening grows louder while he pulls smoke through to his lungs, pushing through his nostrils, awaiting the hurricane that could go one of two ways—sharp winds and no damage, or a total fucking disaster. He’s largely unconcerned; if Lucius had a quid for each time Tom threatened to kill him, well.

The car door slams shut over the engine hum, and Tom strides up the cobblestone looking as if patience clings to his furrowed brows by a thread. “Ah, Lucius.” He stops at the bottom of the marble stairs. “My dear friend. Care to invite me into your lovely home, or am I a bit old for your tastes? Eighteen more your speed these days?”

Lucius tosses his cigarette to the ice and stands. “Before you come for my blood, please ask yourself: Why on _earth_ would I, heir to the Malfoy-Adenot fortune, lob my cock at an ugly, little parishioner?”

The marble clicks, Tom’s first foot on its step. “I dare not ask myself _why_ you did it when I could, instead, ask _why_ I shouldn’t slit your pale throat now.”

“Don’t be so crass. Narcissa’s already crying,” Lucius tells him solemnly, hoping to be spared the theatrics.

The two stare at each other, a game both know too well. It was no different when they were young and reasonably unimportant; those times are now missed, Lucius thinks, standing keen with dread for the future, peering into the madness his money corrupts.

“I didn’t do it,” he clarifies, breaking the small silence.

Tom, evidently, isn’t so sure. His bottom lip stiffens as he meets within an inch of Lucius, descending a dark-eyed gaze of embittered judgement. “You mean to say the press is lying?”

“I mean to say the _bint_ is lying,” Lucius drawls. “I would never cheat on Narcissa, would never even _dream_ of it. I’m not…” 

“You’re not like _Daddy_ dearest, I suppose?” Tom fills in, smilingly nastily.

Lucius doesn’t respond

“Alright, then. I believe you. I had a look at the girl – pretty, I suppose, but a red-head? No, certainly not befitting of your odd mummy complex, is she?”

“I don’t know the girl,” Lucius spits, circling a nervous finger around a strand of his blond cut.

“And the photos?”

“Sent to Narcissa, thanks.”

Lucius pulls his outer layer around him tighter, pressing bare feet into the chill marble top. His ancestors roamed these grounds for centuries, sat on this very porch, chewed through many political scandals. It comes with the territory of being a Malfoy; he almost loathes to bear a child into the mess, but then no one’s truly free to choose, are they?

There are four more clicks as Tom leaves Lucius behind, turning once to say, “I’ll learn more of the girl,” before driving again to the road. How he regained his license after _the incident_ , Lucius will never know.

The door slides open. Narcissa, gorgeous in a white night gown, leans against the frame, tresses of gold lying over her peeking shoulder. No more tears fall but her face is a swollen, blushing red. “He seems to have matured at least. Years ago I would’ve been left mopping blood from the both of you.”

Lucius ponders this, eyes falling to the muddied streaks of snow curling up on his lawn, leading to the frightened peacocks who’ve found solace at the far edge of the manicured hedge. He snorts humorlessly. “Someone will bleed. I assure you.”

\-----

Harry smiles with satisfaction.

The dinner table, set immaculate, gleams with silverware placed in their proper queues. At the sixteenth plate, he takes his final cloth serviette and layers it carefully, folding until he holds a perfect, beige rose to match the others. The porcelain epergne, centered on the thinnest tablecloth, beckons him to his final task, deciding which fruits deserve to be featured. He is careful to set the prettiest on the outside, the hombre of red and green apple-skins forming a mote around the less slightly ones.

“You’re too good, Harry.”

Tom walks through the corridor entrance and sits beside Harry, next staring up with a smirk. He is not the man Harry first met, in mind or in form. His body, now stern and artfully garbed, relaxes on the chair, arms slung casually down the back.

“It’s nothing,” Harry mutters. “Glad you’re back. Bellatrix is in a state.”

“Yes, I imagine so. You needn’t concern yourself with the whole affair – at least, not until dinnertime.” He winks and takes a stand, disappearing into the foyer.

Harry could follow but, exhausted, instead takes to twiddling his fingers and staring at the epergne. He has yet to meet half of the expected dinner guests, and the half he knows are a blend of the powerful and the eccentric (some both, naturally). The presence of others tires him quickly. He left St. Brutus’s two weeks ago but it continues to live within him. The virus, Tom assures, won’t carry on forever. He should know.

The guests arrive all at once. Most of the men come dressed in black suits: Pettigrew is round in his; Yaxley is ugly and harsh; the Lestrange brothers, one tall and one burly, wear ties of opposite shades – making some sort of a point, Harry reckons. Lucius looks pristinely bland but, as expected, displays a sorry scowl. Abraxas doesn’t wear black, perhaps to clarify he isn’t here to mourn the political death of his daft son. His pants are a cheerful white with blue, collared pinstripes tucked beneath a black belt. The wives of the men are beautiful match, in various nice dresses, but those women who matter – Bellatrix, Alecto Carrow, and young Ms. Parkinson – look sorted and professional, a pantsuit on each of them.

Illumination comes from the dangling pendant bulbs overhead and a fire that pops and cackles behind Tom’s seat at the head of the table. Their dinner begins with wine and meats at Tom’s cue.

“Friends,” Abraxas starts, quickly raising his glass flute and narrowly missing Tom’s nose, who sends an agitated smirk, “I know that today we meet beneath the shadow of my son’s foolish scandal, but I implore you to treat the situation with levity, however humorless he may be.”

Lucius presses his lips in a thin line, and it is his wife who speaks next, “My husband is innocent of the accusation. Ask Tom if you need further explanation.”

“Indeed,” Tom confirms, setting down his glass. “I fear we’ve found ourselves the victims of someone’s little scheme to reduce Malfoy’s popularity, though for what reason, I can’t yet say. That’s where our newest recruit comes into play." He smiles. "For all who have yet to make his acquaintance formally, this is Harry Potter.”

Harry tries a small, uncertain smile, his position made awkward by the sudden shift in attention. “Hello.”

“It may have taken a rather lengthy and costly court procedure to get him here. Most of you, having each played a vital part in his exoneration, already know this. My investment was not in vain and should you attempt to,” he moves his gaze subtly to Bellatrix, “ _intimidate_ or undermine Harry, you must answer to me in return. Now, cheers to Harry!”

Their glasses raise without hesitation, though Harry looks straight at his plate, too fearful to see their expressions and find derision or indifference as they respond, “Cheers!”

“Thank you,” he mutters, nodding once.

“As a liberated member of our ranks, Harry shall be assigned a most important task: infiltrate the life of Ginevra Weasley. She has an interest in derailing our campaign. It’s likely not of importance why she cares but still it matters that she does. Severus in the meantime shall acquire all of her personal data and you, Carrow,” he gestures at the woman, whose gaunt face droops with severity, “will facilitate Harry’s enrollment at your most _esteemed_ institution.”

Abraxas fills his lined cheeks with a look of pure glee, whipping back his fair mane. “And _you_ Lucius shall see to it that no one else suffers the immense displeasure of seeing you naked.”

“I can make no promises,” he responds too dolefully to be taken as a joke, and the table is encouraged by this poorly veiled indulgence. Harry recedes to the safeness of his mind, a narrow crevice between reality and himself where thoughts are free to flourish, roam, without antagonism. The food on his plate goes untouched, as he is uncomfortably stuffed with questions regarding the nature of the mission, the feasibility of his role, whether it is necessary that he intervene at all. He would voice his concerns to Tom but then, noticing that Tom is caught in conversation with Abraxas, whose wanting eyes each feed off the other’s, he bites his tongue.

Quite literally, in fact. It bleeds. He dulls the pain with a bit of ice and decides, as something bitter rises, that he shall be one that impresses Tom without complaint or hesitation. To hell with this Genovera Weasel.

\-----

She paints her nails in Godric College red and listens to upbeat music with pride thrumming a gleeful rhythm in her chest. On her shelf sits a mess of papers and booklets, two earmarked at the top of the pile: _A Comprehensive Guide to Dismantling Fascists_ and _Truly Radical: Why Violence is Politics of a Last Resort._ Her small, cheap phone is turned off somewhere beneath them, and once she presses _on_ , it’s certain to animate with loved ones galore, spilling off about Lucius Malfoy. She’s not altogether happy about the whole thing, exactly.

(Her eyes flit to a photo by her bedstead.)

She’s just doing what needs to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented, kudos'd and bookmarked. I really appreciate your support, and I'd love to know your thoughts and wishes for the coming chapters. I only vaguely know how this story will end, so there's certainly space for suggestions.


	3. Two

“IF WE understand our position in modern society as that, a _position_ , we lose focus of how tides turn; of how the earth quakes; of how events, inside and outside our control, push and pull us closer to the prevailing wisdom of our fathers before us—capitalism, and its reproduction of social ills, will not deliver us to the global equality deserved by the laborer. It shall not supersede itself and form an improved order in its place.

It will destroy us unless we take it upon ourselves to be _its_ destroyer.

I have seen wealth. I have seen the wealthy do unspeakable things. I wish no longer for the protection of their epoch and I will not, cannot endorse their reign as a passive participant. I will act on our behalf, that of the people, and undo with my own hands what must be undone: civil society as it stands.

I am Lord Voldemort. I am the eternal truth. My people, the death eaters, are preemptive agents of the scythe. We invite the discomfort of the privileged unwilling, and we compel those who know the true path to follow our lead.”

> — Voldemort, taken from “Pamphlet on the Destruction of Power & its Genealogy, Series I”

* * *

102.3 million downloads. 102.3 million bloody downloads of _this_ , this absolute drivel. Bloated, purple pseudo-intellectual trite. Beloved by uneducated underbellies with no concept of prose, sympathized with by college-aged radicals with no concept of the democratic process.

‘Pure, sure shite,’ as her father would say, and Hermione Granger doesn’t take shite.

Never has. Never will.

But the public fears the Death Eaters. The death toll is approaching two hundred at last check, and the names attached to the deceased aren’t exactly cheap ones. Leading investors at Gringotts, top shareholders at Lestrange Inc., the Conservative think-tank strategists in Manchester—all dead, poisoned with cryptic notes. The Death Eaters brand themselves as saviors of a sort, protectors of a disillusioned and exploited laboring class: _preemptive agents of the scythe_.

Hermione sighs and shakes her head free of thin-lined skulls and serpents. She has a job to do.

The sun hides shyly behind clouds of grey, offering no relief from the chill that bites at her ruddy cheeks. It certainly wins her some sympathy points, she must admit. Thawing her fingers on the warm paper of her coffee cup, she canvasses the streets with a blinding smile. Her parents being dentists may’ve not put her in league with the wealth and connections Lucius “Dickpic” Malfoy has, but it made her relatable; a good candidate. At each door in the turf, she crafts the narrative well for herself, careful not to shiver.

_It’s a pleasure to be here. I’m Hermione Granger, barrister and soon your next MP._

_Growing up biracial in Britain, I’ve learned…_

_My mother was raised in a small Nigerian village, but by coming to Britain she…_

_I value your contribution and I think it’s time Britain pays you back._

“Reckon your lot can take on them Malfoys, do you?” asks one burly woman, leaning against a trailer panel, a cigarette dangling between two wrinkled fingers. “Got lots of money, haven’t they?”

Hermione nods. “It certainly is true that Lucius Malfoy has out-fundraised our campaign, but we have a larger number of contributions than any other candidate, with most donations being made under five dollars. People—ordinary people—believe in this campaign. Malfoy is the man of the old, complacent establishment. We’re here for _you_.”

The woman takes a long drag, smoke pouring next through her thin nostrils. “Yeah. Can’t stand old Dicky myself. Wife’s a right twat, too.”

Hermione stands with a blank expression as the woman stubs the fag on her home, creating a fresh charred circle.

“Go on then,” the woman says abruptly, gesturing at the street. “You got my vote.”

By the fifth hour of face-to-face engagement, Hermione succumbs to the cold and takes refuge in a coffee shop along a strip of quirky boutiques: Hagrid’s Hut. The warmth inside is an immediate comfort. She pulls out her wallet, brown and tattered, and orders a macchiato with her characteristic smile. The large man operating the cash register reveals great crooked teeth the shade and shape of tombstones. He thrusts his hand over the counter and says, “Yer that ‘Mione Granger, ain’t ya?”

Hermione perks and takes his larger, balmy palm with her free hand. “Yes, that’s me. It’s a pleasure to meet you. And you are?”

“Hagrid,” he responds, beaming, seeming so innocent for someone not younger than fifty. “Rubeus Hagrid.”

 _Handicapped_ , she thinks astutely, skimming her pitches and finding one that’s _just_ right. She speaks slowly and clearly. “This is quite the store you’ve got, Mr. Hagrid. I love the paintings.”

Simple acrylic paintings of nature scenes, flowers and ridgelines and the southern shore. Ugly, really. But he blushes at her praise, and that’s all that matters. She smiles fondly.

“Yer quite the lass, Ms. Granger,” he says, clenching the apron that drapes around his immense stomach. “Support’d ya from the start, I did. Count me self lucky ya chose ter come ‘ere. That drink’s on me, and I won’t be hearin’ nothing of it.” He winks.

“Oh, that’s very generous of you, Mr. Hagrid,” she shakes his hand once more. “You’re much too kind.”

“Nah, s’nothin. Yer the kind one, going out thur’ all brave. Them Death Eaters can’t keep you down, can they? Not scared of ‘em?”

“No, most cer—”

A hand slams on the counter beside her. Hermione turns sharply to face a teen boy. Plain boy with a skull on his ragged tee, he speaks with a harsh and uneven voice. “You should be.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione responds, leering down at the brat.

He raises his fair brows up beneath a dyed-black fringe.  “Powerful people, don’t you reckon?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” she says stiffly.

“What’re ya talking ‘bout?” Hagrid asks roughly, crossing his arms indignantly. “You supportin’ those thugs? If that be the case, then finish yer cup and don’t come back.”

The teen snorts. “Fine.”

The teen moves quickly, and Hermione gasps as steaming, hot liquid splashes across her neck, clinging to loose curls and leaking into her woolen coat. In her younger years, when she was bookish and fresh, she perhaps would’ve shouted, screamed, asked him how he _dared_ do something so vile—but she’s older now. She takes him by the nape of his neck and swiftly presses his face into the counter, locking a foot around his ankle and gripping his wrists. He’s tall but lanky and no match for her. He whimpers feebly and fidgets against her hold while the café fills with scuffles, shouts, and camera flashes.

“Please, Mr. Hagrid. Could you alert the appropriate authorities? I have a meeting to get to, and I’d like to have the assault charge filed within the hour.”

* * *

“ _Local coffee shop owner, Rubeus Hagrid, claims MP candidate Hermione Granger was engaged in polite conversation with him when the 18-year-old, an alleged Death Eater affiliate, assaulted her. Video footage shows the man tossing his hot beverage onto her before she overpowered him in a hold until the police could arrive. Users of social media are calling Granger ‘heroic’ and ‘bold’, while critics claim she ‘overreacted’ to ‘childish provocations.’ The latest polls show Granger trailing incumbent MP Lucius Malfoy by five points…_ ”

“Enough of that,” Tom sighs, motioning at the telly. “I’d rather avoid killing your son for now.”

“As you wish,” Abraxas says, obliging with the click of the remote.

Harry sips from a mocha propped by his withdrawn knees and watches Tom pace behind Abraxas. Mornings like this are nice. He almost regrets his assignment but, then, nothing in life is free and Tom promises he won’t be left too long without his company.

Abraxas laughs, low and odd. “If you _do_ choose to kill Lucius, please let him sire me a grandson first. Malfoy blood is a precious thing to spill.”

Used to freak him out a bit, but Harry gets it now; this is an ongoing joke between the two. Neither could really do something like that to Lucius. Tom and Lucius have a long (if complicated) friendship, and Abraxas loves his son dearly—perhaps almost as dearly as he loves himself. They’re killers of a sort, but not killers of their own. Those killed are corrupt bastards. All of them. Harry doesn’t mind the death of sadists, rapists, thieves—exploiters and horrid, horrid men—so long as innocents receive amnesty. It’s as Tom once said, “ _Is it immoral to shoot a lion as it stalks a heard of sheep?”_

His blood runs cold.

( _…glass breaking…a door slamming…a familiar voice…nasty boy, look what you’ve done to your pants! never speak of a word of this or…_ )

“Harry, _do_ calm down. You’ll make a mess.”

Abraxas’s words snap Harry from his thoughts. His hands come into focus and he realizes that he’s trembling, mocha dribbling down the porcelain mug and onto his red flannel pajamas. He wants to cry at the mistake, at the white scars around his wrists, at the misfortune of his mind. He chuckles lightly instead.

“Spilt a bit of coffee. Maybe we could film Lucius putting me in a chokehold. Might win him back some points.”

Both men laugh.

“Happens to me quite often,” Tom says lightly, rounding the couch and approaching Harry. He stands in front of him, handsomely smiling, and takes the mug gently, fingers brushing over Harry’s. “I’ll get you a new one.”

Tom leaves for the kitchen, and Harry’s cheeks burn red hot. Abraxas stares with pursed lips and one arched brow. “Haven’t you a therapy session today, my boy?”

Harry nods. “And a haircut.”

Abraxas’s hands move to his own hair, a lush mane of blond that shimmers like satin. He combs through it as he speaks, “What kind of haircut?”

“Er… a normal one, I suppose.”

Abraxas sits up attentively with his head turned to the fire, a thoughtful crease splitting his forehead. “Forgive an old man his rambling, but I must say, I can’t help but be reminded of Tom at your age. Figures he would choose you, really… Tom?”

“Hm?” he hums, returning with the promised mocha in hand.

“Are you really _such_ a narcissist?”

Tom shrugs. “In what way?”

“Haircut _and_ therapy? Remind you of anyone? I started that routine with you, all those years ago. Trying to craft Harry in your image now, are you?”

“Perhaps I merely thought the discipline effective,” Tom says simply. “You don’t own a monopoly on cleaning up worm-bellied pups. Besides, there’s quite a world of difference between getting a young man _groomed_ and _grooming_ a young man.”

“Oh,” Abraxas waves his hand dramatically, “again with _that_ accusation. Don’t pretend its _discipline_ that did you any good—phenyltriazine derivatives, now, _they_ do the trick.”

Harry slips out, his mocha left behind. When out of view, he cups his ears until the voices are too distant to hear, until he’s reached his bedroom. The plush duvet is cool and comforting on his warm skin, so he removes his shirt and lies back fully, appreciating the view of nothingness overhead. Just a plain white ceiling—no judgement there, no weird implications. He closes his eyes and breathes in patterns: one, two, three; a, b, c.

He should be grateful to Abraxas; without his money, all the support he’s given Tom, Harry would be in chains right now. Does it matter that he started fucking Tom when he was a mere fourteen, an adolescent, a _child_? Is it weird that Tom seems more than content with this _less-than-legal_ start to their _not-so-ideal_ romance? Harry huffs, digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. Yes, it matters. Yes, it’s bloody weird. It’s downright wrong. And what does Lucius think? How awful must it have been for him to endure the cries of his betrayed mother?

Abraxas had sex with a child. He’s no better than a rapist. _Is_ a rapist.

Harry grinds the words out through barred teeth, “No. He’s. Not.”

Whatever Brax has going on with Tom, it was never like that.  Life’s not like it was anymore. He raises his wrists above his head and considers the whitened flesh of his scars. His legs cross protectively. Without the Death Eaters, and without Tom, Harry would truly have nothing. Each free breath he takes is due to their grace. If he’s just a pawn, then so bloody well be it. A small voice in his head oft reminds him that no one, not even Abraxas, shares this ethereal space with Tom.

No one, that is, but Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter is way, way shorter than I intended, but I got caught up with school, and because I'm starting NaNiWriMo today, I realized it would be... far too long until I got together all the material I wanted. So, for now, I hope you enjoy. :D 
> 
> (Note: I'll come back for edits later. Now, I have to run to class... very responsible!)
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT (May 29, 2018): I've discontinued this—sorry! I never developed the plot through, lost my initial point, and then decided to leave it behind. Thank you for reading.


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